The Laying on of Hands
by Hayseed Socrates
Summary: Lisbon contemplates Jane's hands. A plot free, fluffy one shot. In the end, I couldn't resist writing about those hands...


I don't own anything about The Mentalist and no copyright infringement is intended.

 _AN: In the end, I simply couldn't resist writing about the hands. Surely you understand. Apologies to those who don't like first person, but it seems to be my POV of choice for writing fanfic these days. Not sure why. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this plot free piece of fluff._

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I sink into my desk chair with a grateful sigh. I'm back from my assignment early – it's eleven thirty – thankfully just in time for lunch. My husband, however, is not sprawled on his couch waiting for me like he promised. In fact, the entire bullpen is empty, and a quick visual inventory reveals my team plus two blue-suited agents from Fraud all gathered around the fishbowl conference table.

As I peer over the framed picture of our smiling two year old, I see that one of the Fraud guys is standing, addressing the group, including Jane. I'm happy to see him at work today, because I do miss him now that he's not here all the time. He consults about once a month these days, and spends the rest of his time as a stay-at-home dad for our son, an arrangement that is working well for everyone involved.

Looking closer at him through the glass, I focus on his hands. They are arranged in front of him on the table, with palms facing each other and fingertips touching. His head is bowed, staring at them. _Ha_ , I chuckle, because that's a sure sign he has already figured out who the killer is. He steals a glance at the door. He's bored, and I break into a grin, imagining his internal dialogue about the droning Blue Suit #1. I'm reasonably good at reading his face now, but his hands give him away every time.

Soon he notes my presence in the bullpen out of the corner of his eye, and gives me a subtle, two finger wave. When he sees my smile, I'm positive he knows I'm laughing at his impatient discomfort and he rolls his eyes a little as he turns back to feign interest in whatever the dull agent is saying.

While I'm waiting for the meeting to end, I reflect back onto my morning. Our current case involves a heath care fraud gone wrong, which resulted in the homicide of an FBI agent. One of the suspects is a doctor, and Cho sent me out to interview one of the doc's colleagues this morning, to get a feel for the suspect and glean any possibly helpful information that I could.

The suspect's coworker, a female physician who is on the staff at a university teaching hospital, was finishing up with a student when I approached her earlier this morning. I couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation while I waited for her to finish.

"Your battery of tests was correct," she praised her student," and the history and physical you noted in the chart was excellent. My only suggestion for improvement is regarding your interaction with the patient today. I think you should have reexamined his abdomen during your visit in his room."

"But ma'am," the earnest student protested. "We already know what the CT of the abdomen shows."

"True, it's doubtful you would have obtained any useful diagnostic information from your exam."

"Then why should I have done it?" he asked, perplexed.

"It has to do with the patient's perception," the older doc noted. "The 'laying on of hands', as it is referred to." She paused and adjusted her glasses. "There is something therapeutic for the patient about being examined. It makes a patient feel 'treated' rather than just 'talked to.'"

"I explained to him what the scan showed in detail. Isn't an exam just a waste of time?"

"You may think that, but I maintain it is not. Try it next time, and see what you think. I believe your patient will be more satisfied with your care," she said, and dismissed her student, turning her attention to me. "What can I do for you? Agent Lisbon, is it?" she asked. "Shall we sit here, in the break room?"

The doctor was cooperative, and tried to answer all my inquiries as best she could. The suspect was a colleague, but not a friend. When I was done with my questions, the other woman shook my hand warmly as we parted, and I began to think she had a point. The touch sealed our interaction, and made it feel somehow more complete. _Fascinating._

So now I'm sitting here waiting for Jane, mulling the power of hands and their touch. Before long, Blue Suit #1 finishes and Jane pops up in a flash to address the group himself. His hands dance excitedly as he explains something to the team, most likely a scheme to corner the person he has already determined is the killer. A couple of nights ago when I got home from work, I watched those very same hands help a set of much smaller hands pat the earth firmly around a tomato plant in our garden.

 _Versatile, those hands._ My mind wanders back, thinking about them to pass the time. Those hands weren't always gentle. They had pulled the trigger on a rifle to kill another man, and saved my life in the process. They had brutally squeezed the life out of the monster who killed the people he loved.

These days, however, they are strong in different ways, no longer violent. Covered in gloves, they wield a hammer, burying nails into the beams of our porch, building a home for us – his new family.

I recall some of their other deeds with fondness. His hands had clasped barrettes into my sweat soaked hair to keep it out of my face while I was in labor with our son, even while I swore at him. Those same hands tenderly cradled our newborn only a few hours later, while unashamed tears of joy streamed down his face. Those hands folded the blue hospital bassinette card – Baby Boy Jane, 7 lbs 14 oz – into an origami cradle. The one that is still sitting here on my desk.

I think back to another day when his hand squeezed my knee under the conference room table, the first time Cho assigned me field work after our baby was born. I took pains to assure him I would be careful, but as I left the bullpen that day, his fingers were madly rubbing against one another as he reclined on the couch. Though he said nothing, determined to honor our agreement to look on the bright side, I knew he would worry, no matter what I said. His hands told me that.

Just last year, elegant hands deftly turned one hundred dollars into ten thousand dollars at a poker table in Vegas. Mostly to amuse me, but also to buy some much needed new furniture for our home. And about that same time, one of those hands offered just the right balance of support and encouragement to our son as he learned to walk.

The corner of my mouth turns up in a smile as I remember Jane's hands last night. When he emerged from our sleeping son's room, he held a finger to his lips, cautioning me, "Shhh." (Like I would wake up a sleeping child) And then he proceeded to use those hands to prove to me that despite my swollen, pregnant belly, I am still sexy to him. Well practiced in the art of pleasing me, they were ever so convincing.

My attention snaps back to the present when I see Cho nodding (he must have approved Jane's plan), and everyone stands and files out of the room. My smiling husband makes a beeline for me. "We have a plan to catch the killer," he beams. "So let's go to lunch."

"Sounds good," I agree, as he offers me a hand. I'm beginning my eighth month, and getting up is becoming difficult. I take it gratefully and he hauls me to a standing position. As we walk together to the elevator, I reach down and take his hand. This makes him happy - I understand that now. He is childishly pleased when I "claim" him in our work environment, happy to be the object of my PDA. He wasn't shown much affection as a child, I doubt, though I'd never discuss it with him. I do note he is determined to prevent our son from suffering that kind of drought, offering him frequent hugs, pats, and kisses. Our son will be confident that he is loved.

When we are alone in the elevator, Jane raises my hand to his lips, and plants a whispery kiss on my knuckles. I roll my eyes, but he knows what I like, and a familiar tingle from his gesture travels all the way to my toes. I smack his arm, and he laughs. He knows.

When we reach my car, I allow him to drive. He insists the passenger seat is safer for a pregnant woman, and he's right. As we pull out of the lot, headed to our favorite lunch spot, I feel a violent kick in my belly. "Ouch," I exclaim.

"What?" he asks, concerned.

"She's kicking the crap out of me. Must be hungry." Since I was forty when our son was born, we assumed the dwindling fertility rate expected with my age would leave him an only child. We were wrong. ("Apparently we're breeders," Patrick had laughed.) Our daughter is due in two months.

I reach over and grab his right hand and place on my abdomen, leaving him to steer with the left. The baby obliges me, kicking again and again under his touch. His grin lights up the car. "She's going to be a spitfire, Lisbon," he gloats. "Just like you."

Then I lift his hand up, holding it in both of mine, and examine it carefully, tracing the lines and noticing its contours. He shoots me a quick glance, wondering what this is about. "I love your hands," I admit, and then I release him, allowing the hand to return to the steering wheel. Amused, he tilts his head slightly. He knows I'm pondering something significant, but he doesn't know what it is.

The doctor was right this morning. The laying on of hands is important. I place my left hand on his thigh, and decide to let him wonder...

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Hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading! (All hail The Hands)


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